


off the record

by PaintedVanilla



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bickering, Cake, Character Study, Children, Developing Relationship, Drunken Shenanigans, Flirting, Jealousy, M/M, Making Out, Mission Reports, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, References to Freddie Mercury, References to Oscar Wilde, Seven Deadly Sins, Seven Heavenly Virtues, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 06:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18330266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedVanilla/pseuds/PaintedVanilla
Summary: Crowley has to submit a biannual report, but there are some things that he often neglects to include.





	1. vices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashjj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashjj/gifts).



> Thank you to Madi who inspired the idea of demons keeping logs of sins they commit. Thank you to Ash for messaging the discord fanfic channel and making me feel loved enough to start a new long fic as soon as I possibly could. Thank you to the ghost of Freddie Mercury who might have paid me a visit while I was writing scene eleven.

24 September, 1989

Committed Greed

* * *

Aziraphale digs haphazardly through Crowley’s collection of tapes, beginning to get quite fed up. He pulls another one out, squints at it, and then pushes it back into the collection with a roll of his eyes.

“Really, my dear, that’s your _third_ Tchaikovsky tape. How many do you need?” he chastised.

“Really, angel, you have _three_ first editions of _A Woman of No Importance,_ how many do _you_ need?” Crowley shoots back, mocking his tone. Aziraphale throws him a dirty glare, but doesn’t respond. Crowley defends himself anyways. “None of ‘em are Tchaikovsky anymore. S’all _Best of Queen.”_

“Well, you might consider getting rid of some of them,” Aziraphale suggests. “Or taking them out of the car so your Queen collection doesn’t amass.”

“What are you looking for, anyways?” Crowley asks, looking at him curiously. 

“Something other than your be-bop,” Aziraphale mutters, and Crowley rolls his eyes. The angel pulls a tape out of the collection, scans it, then asks, “How long has then one been in here, then?”

“Dunno,” Crowley says, not looking at it. “Fortnight?”

“Here’s hoping.”

Aziraphale slides the tape into the deck, and they both wait expectantly. Aziraphale rolls his eyes and sits back in his seat when a heavy bass begins pouring out of the speakers. “I give up.”

“Could bring your own tapes,” Crowley suggests, thumping his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat.

“I don’t keep tapes,” Aziraphale insists. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t let them anywhere near your car.”

“Aw, why d’you say that?” Crowley asks, grinning innocently. “You’re in here often enough. You could switch them out.”

“You’d get too attached,” Aziraphale sighs. “Why don’t you get rid of all these? They’re all the same thing.”

“Nah,” Crowley says. “Some of ‘em have bonus tracks.”

Aziraphale shuts the glove box with a little more force than necessary. “Greedy little thing, you are.”

“That is my job, yes,” Crowley says dryly. “Although you have to admit, a collection of tapes certainly looks nice in one’s glove box.”

“I could think of better things to store in a glove box.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

“Gloves.”

Crowley laughs.

“And isn’t this where you’d normally keep a manual?” Aziraphale continues. “Or, license and registration, that sort of thing?”

“I don’t have a license,” Crowley reminds him.

“I can’t imagine why you would, you’d never pass the test.”

“Hey. I know how to drive.”

“Badly.”

“I don’t _need_ a license and registration,” Crowley insists. “I never get pulled over.”

“And _that,_ dear boy, is a miracle in and of itself.”

“Ooh, blasphemous,” Crowley teases. “I love it when you talk dirty, angel, please do some more.”

Aziraphale tuts. “Your ‘collection’ is hardly impressive. It’s all the same thing and they’re all jumbled up.”

“They’re all jumbled up because you just rummaged through them!” Crowley complains.

“No, I distinctly remember finding them like that.”

Crowley throws him a slide long glance, his yellow eyes visible from the sides, and Aziraphale can tell he isn’t really mad. He relaxes in his seat a little more. “You might consider investing in CD’s.”

“Don’t have a CD player,” Crowley says simply.

“Well, you might consider investing in one of those, too,” Aziraphale points out. “I could—”

“You alter my car, I alter you out of it,” Crowley snaps protectively, and Aziraphale frowns but let’s the subject drop.

“I don’t understand it,” he says finally. “You and your tapes. Serves no purpose.”

“Angel, s’my job to be greedy,” Crowley says. “It serves quite a purpose. It’s one glove box of clutter. I’ve a quota to fill.”

“Do you?” Aziraphale asks.

“Got to write up a bloody memo for every deadly sin committed,” Crowley explains, thinking up the one he was going to have to write up for this particular instance. “After a while, committing ‘em almost becomes a chore, so I don’t like to go out of my way. Just the usuals.”

“Which would be?” Aziraphale asks curiously.

“You know what the sins are, angel,” Crowley reminds him.

“Yes, but I’m hard pressed to remember your favorites. If you don’t go around committing greed, what else do you abstain from?”

“I don’t abstain,” Crowley says hurriedly.

“Ah, of course,” Aziraphale agrees. “That would be too virtuous of you.”

“S’more like,” Crowley thinks for a moment. “I don’t want to go out of my way. Takes too much time, writing up memos, and I can’t bullshit them all when my report is due, because they have to have dates, you see? So it’s more, like, I commit on the regular, and then I look back over the report and think, eh, I’m a little low on greed, so I’ll say I added to my tape collection—which is all and will all be the same blessed tape—this date, this date, and this date.”

“And you do this for all the sins?” Aziraphale asks.

“Not at all, just the ones I’m not as big on,” Crowley says. “Others are easier. Sloth—sleep every day. Pride—well, you’ve met me. Gluttony—I just pen down every Ritz date. Others don’t happen quite as naturally, so I just tend to sprinkle them in.”

Aziraphale ponders this for a moment, then looks at him curiously. “Others don’t happen as naturally?”

Crowley makes an exasperated face. “Have we honestly never discussed this? Don’t you have one of these reports due, too?”

“Sure,” Aziraphale says. “Biannually.”

“Biannually,” Crowley mutters. “I hate that time table. Am I supposed to turn them in twice a year or once every two years?”

“Have you considered asking?”

“No, I’m an idiot.”

“Sloth, pride, gluttony, those are your top three? Really?”

Crowley sniffs. “Others don’t even come close. I’m not particularly greedy, angel, you’ve seen my apartment. Don’t tend to get envious. I get short with you, sure, but I wouldn’t consider myself _wrathful_. And—”

“Lust,” Aziraphale finishes for him, a bit smugly. “Don’t commit that one often, do you?”

Crowley blushes deeply, and although he keeps his head still, staring ahead, his yellow eyes flicker over to glance at him. “Er… course I do.”

Aziraphale gives him a knowing look, and Crowley looks back to the road. “Course I do,” he says again.

“Not enough for it to be your top three,” Aziraphale points out.

“My top three are common!” Crowley argues. “I sleep every day. I’m committing pride as we _speak._ We do the Ritz—what—er—”

“Not often enough for it to be in the top three,” Aziraphale interrupts.

“Lust is easily fourth,” Crowley says quickly.

“Oh, but the other three don’t even come _close,”_ Aziraphale reminds him. “Your words.”

“Can you go back to grilling me about my tape collection?” Crowley asks nervously. He thinks vaguely about how when he pens down this memo, this conversation will need to be redacted.

* * *

26 August, 1990

Committed Gluttony

* * *

Crowley pauses in the middle of writing the date down, and sits at his desk for a long moment pondering, his fork still in his mouth. Should he even be penning this? Does he _need_ to? Is Hell going to start requesting his reports again now that he’s helped avert the apocalypse? They haven’t reached out to him as of yet, either to drag him down into eternal torture or just to slide him a memo letting him know to proceed business as usual.

He hesitates, then takes another bites of cake and finishes the memo halfheartedly. He might as well write it down, although he doubts he’s ever going to forget the date. It’s a date that really shouldn’t be. This is a memo that shouldn’t be. The devil’s food cake he’s working his way through slowly but surly is a cake that most definitely shouldn’t be.

Thinking of the name, again, makes him exhale a little through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but it is amusing nonetheless. Devil’s food cake. _Yeah,_ he thinks, as he takes another bite, _it really is._

He already went to the Ritz with Aziraphale earlier. He should have penned gluttony just for that, but he wasn’t really thinking straight. He was a bit preoccupied with feeling the weight of the angel’s hand in his under the table. It had been the only thing on his mind all day, and it wasn’t until he’d been left alone in his apartment with his thoughts did he allow them to wander down more sinful avenues.

_Hey,_ he’d thought, realizing he had spent more time at dinner staring at the angel and nursing his wine than he had eating, _you know what I’m craving…_

Aside from wine, this confection is, truly, his favorite food humans had ever come up with. He can’t believe it’s only existed for a little under a century. He vaguely wonders how he ever managed to live without it, though then he finds himself wondering how he ever managed to live without pressing chaste kisses to an angel’s lips, and he shoves another bite of the cake in his mouth to distract himself. 

Crowley is going to eat this whole cake himself, in one sitting, mark his words. He can count the times he’s indulged in such a delicacy, and he hates himself for it. The world was ending yesterday, and in his six thousand years he’d eaten nine slices of devil’s food cake. That wasn’t even a whole cake. How abhorrent of him.

It wasn’t that he _abstained_ from the dessert. No, abstinence was a virtue, therefor a sin to _him,_ and he was supposed to indulge sinful whims. It just so happened that he felt the need to indulge this specific whim very sparsely. He only wanted to eat this particular confection every now and again, since the first time he’d had it somewhere around, oh when had it been, 1906? He didn’t want to indulge in it if he wasn’t craving it, because then it just didn’t feel _right._

No, he’d much rather… well, it was a convoluted thing, really. But normally he’d take a slice of angel’s food cake, knowing full well he never intended to eat it (he wasn’t a fan of the texture), under the guise of being a general menace and wasting food. And, well, if a certain angel always happened to steal it from him, under the guise of preventing him from wasting food, well. That was just how things tended to play out. Thwarting and wiles and whatnot.

Crowley pushes the memo to the other side of the counter, along with the pen, and focuses on his cake. He’ll consider it his reward. You know, for saving the world and all that.

* * *

14 February, 1895

Committed Wrath

* * *

Crowley is gripping the steering wheel so tightly, he’s starting to dent it. It’s burning hot under his hands, but neither of the passengers in the back seat have noticed.

“Oh, you’ve learned to drive?” Aziraphale had asked not a fortnight ago. “Really? So soon after waking up?”

Crowley had shrugged lamely, still embarrassed over having slept so long and having missed so much, still struggling to catch up. “Seems to be with the times.”

“Oh, very!” Aziraphale had agreed cheerfully. “These horseless carriages really are something. Very fancy.”

Then, “Crowley—I don’t suppose you’d be willing to do me a favor?”

Crowley had grunted. “Depends the favor.”

“Well, I’m going to see a play—”

A noise of disapproval from Crowley.

“—and I’m attending with an… esteemed friend. And I wonder if it would be possible for you to drive us to the premier?”

Crowley made a face that perfectly spelled out his distain, but he had been asleep for a long time, and he did sort of feel as though he’d missed a lot of opportunities to be around the angel, so he reluctantly agreed.

He loathes that decision now, as he turns the corner, trying and failing to block out the conversation taking place in the backseat. His grip tightens on the steering wheel, somehow, and he vaguely thinks he’s probably going to have to fix it later. He’s not quite a fan of this car; he likes the idea of cars in _general,_ but this one is… not quite him. He needs to wait a bit and see what’s coming, but he doesn’t want to go back to riding horses. 

Aziraphale laughs loudly at something, and Crowley grits his teeth and interrupts the conversation. “Remind me the address again, _angel.”_

It’s a useless question; you’d have to be blind to miss the crowd of eager people gathered outside the theater. Aziraphale reminds him anyways while his companion sits, with a pondering expression.

“Angel,” he muses. “Where’d you get that?”

“Inside joke,” Crowley growls.

“He’s always joking, this one,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley doesn’t turn to look at him, but he can _feel_ the warning glance.

Crowley doesn’t take his hands off the steering wheel when he pulls up alongside the curb, lest Aziraphale’s companion notice how it’s been deformed by the heat of Crowley’s anger. Aziraphale reaches forward and lays a kind hand on his shoulder, then quickly withdraws it when he senses the wrath.

“Thank you, dear boy,” he says politely. Crowley grunts in response, not looking at him, thankful for his sunglasses which aren’t really sunglasses, more just unfashionable colored glass hiding his yellow eyes. One of the few things he was pleased to discover after waking up.

Aziraphale climbs out of the car, and his companion makes to follow him, as people on the sidewalk begin to gather as the recognize him. “Thanks ever so, Mr. Crowley,” he says, flashing him a smile. Crowley grinds his teeth together and ignores him.

He takes Aziraphale’s hand as he steps out of the car. “Thank you, angel.”

Crowley _seethes,_ very nearly breaking the steering wheel with his grip and very nearly breaking his own teeth with how tightly he grinds them together. He restrains himself by a frayed thread from lighting the man’s entire suit on fire, put off only because there are so many other people standing around, who didn’t really do anything wrong. 

Crowley shifts gears and pulls away from the curb, shaking with rage and fury and _wrath,_ and he can’t even remember the last time he was inspired to feel this way. He can’t even think clearly enough to form the words into the memo he’s going to have to put together; he can barely think clearly enough to make sure nobody notices him racing down the streets of London, away from the St. James Theater father than any car has ever driven before.

_“The Importance of Being Earnest,”_ Crowley growls to himself. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

* * *

3 December, 1832

Committed Sloth

* * *

Crowley groans and stretches and rolls over in his bed, grumbling over being disturbed. He wonders vaguely what it was that woke up, but then he shifts and his attention is suddenly dragged to his bladder, and he opens his eyes, blinking blearily.

He sighs, rolling out of the comfort of his bed, out of the warmth of his blankets, and he’s immediately chilled to the bone. He wouldn’t consider this odd, considering that he was sleeping naked, except for the fact that it _is_ only early August. 

He does his business, and he’s on his way back to bed when he notices something extremely odd that catches his attention. At his front door is a _mountain_ of mail, spilling into the entry hall, and Crowley squints at it. He stands, naked and staring at the piles of paper, and then snaps out of it and walks closer. 

He plucks an envelope off the top. Checks the return address. It’s not one he recognizes. He peels it open and checks the date. 

_14 November, 1832._

He winces. 

He hand’t _meant_ to sleep for twenty-nine years, he really hadn’t. He’s a little startled he _did._ When he’d settle in for a nap, he’d really just meant to spend an afternoon in bed, not three decades. He regards the letter with halfhearted interests, then looks at the rest of the enormous pile. Twenty nine years worth of memos, correspondence from human acquaintances, and probably inquiries from Aziraphale about where he’s gotten off to. 

Crowley sighs. Any humans he knew definitely think he’s dead by now. He thinks a little harder, and winces. That’s twenty-nine years of missed reports. That’s fifty-eight reports. Or fourteen, depending on what ‘biannually’ was supposed to mean. Crowley sifts half heartedly through the pile until he finds a letter from his employer, ripping it open and scanning it. 

_CRAWLEY,_

_WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? WE’LL ASSUME YOU HAVE MOVED RESIDENCE, BUT THERE’S GOING TO BE HELL TO PAY FOR NOT PUTTING IN A NOTICE. JUST A LITTLE JOKE FOR YOU. WE’RE STILL AWAITING YOUR OVERDUE REPORTS. YOU WON’T GO UNPUNISHED FOR NEGLECTING YOUR DUTIES._

_DAGON_

Crowley swallows, then folds the letter and slides it back into the envelope, dropping it onto the pile. Well, he thinks, I was asleep. They can’t blame me for being asleep. Sloth is a sin, after all, and he’s supposed to indulge. 

He blinks at the pile of mail. He should really sort that. The idea of sitting down and sifting through it immediately gives him a headache, though, and even just the effort to put on a pair of trousers sounds like too much work right now.

He looks back at his room; he probably shouldn’t. But then, isn’t he supposed to indulge things like this? The excuse sounds weak, even in his head, but before he can stop himself he’s slithering back towards his bed anyways. Before he climbs back under the covers, he makes a note to himself of the date. Well, he doesn’t know the exact date, but he takes into consideration the snow outside and takes a guess. 

He slips back under the covers and hopes Dagon will understand. He knows he won’t, but that’s a problem for another decade.

* * *

19 January, 1999

Committed Pride

* * *

Crowley has many ways he likes to spend a Sunday morning, his favorite of which is sitting curled up in a certain angel’s lap. Aziraphale didn’t have any issues with this arrangement, especially as long as Crowley just wanted to doze against him, which was usually all he wanted to do. There was nothing particularly mischievous about his presence, just the fact that Crowley happened to be cold-blooded, and Aziraphale happened to be very warm.

Neither of them really liked to talk about _why_ Aziraphale was so warm. Crowley refused to talk about it; Aziraphale had never actually _tried_ to talk to him about it, but even when the subject was hinted at, Crowley got irritable, so it was better to just avoid it. 

Aziraphale chuckles, stirring Crowley, who’s head is resting on his shoulder. He frowns, opening his eyes, dragging them to look at the book he’s holding. It’s something more philosophy oriented, which means it’s not what Aziraphale finds amusing, and there’s only one other person in the room he could be paying attention to.

“What?” he asks, weary, and Aziraphale shakes his head, still grinning.

“Nothing.”

_“What?”_

“Well, it’s just—” Aziraphale pauses, still amused. “You’re _purring,_ is all.”

Crowley’s frown deepens. “I don’t purr.”

“You were purring,” Aziraphale assures him.

“I was not,” Crowley insists. “I’m not a cat.”

“This is true,” Aziraphale says, his gaze flickering back to his book, but he’s lost his focus, “you old serpent.”

Crowley sniffs indignantly. “Snakes don’t purr.”

“This is true,” Aziraphale says again. 

There’s a lapse of silence, during which Aziraphale honestly attempts to resume reading, and Crowley crosses his ankles where they’re propped against the arm of the sofa. 

“They trill.”

“Hm?” Aziraphale asks, not looking up.

“Snakes,” Crowley elaborates. “They trill. Er—I do, anyways. I don’t purr. I trill.”

Aziraphale looks up from his book, staring at the wall for a moment, considering this, and then he laughs loudly. Crowley frowns, blushing, and hits his shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get his point across.

“Shut up, you brought it up,” he says.

“Yes, but—” Aziraphale breaks off, shutting his book and tossing it on the couch next to him, giggling. “I didn’t think you would actually _admit_ to—to _trilling.”_

“Well, I certainly wasn’t going to admit to purring,” Crowley quips, shifting as Aziraphale wraps his arms around him. Crowley hums, sinking into him, shutting his eyes. “S’not that funny. Can’t be helped really. It’s the cold-blooded thing.”

“Yes, how silly of me to forget,” Aziraphale says, pressing a kiss to his jaw. Crowley trills, and he chuckles again.

“Yeah, okay,” Crowley waves him off. “Make fun of me. If this was flipped, you’d feel the same way.”

Aziraphale hums. “I think only one of us craves divine warmth, dear boy, and it’s not me.”

Crowley stiffens, opening his eyes, shocked. He stares at Aziraphale for a moment, and then he scowls, crawling out of his lap. “You’re a bastard, sometimes, you know that?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, sitting up. “You know I didn’t mean that to be a _bad_ thing—”

“Oh, didn’t you?” Crowley snaps. “Certain that wasn’t your heavenly entitlement shining through?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, more sternly this time. “You know I love you as you are.”

“You sure?” Crowley asks. “What, with me going around _craving divine warmth,_ and all, must get bloody annoying.”

“Crowley—”

“You know, being damned isn’t the worst thing in the world,” he says, even though that’s almost the definition of being damned. “I would much rather have Fallen than have stayed up there with all the—with—with _Gabriel’s_ insufferable ass and with—”

“I didn’t say—”

“You’re _implying,”_ Crowley presses, “that I crave divinity. That I crave the—the _warmth of heaven_ , or something ridiculous like that, which _isn’t true.”*_

*It was, in fact, a little true.

“I do not crave anything,” Crowley says. “I’m cold-blooded and human bodies aren’t _meant_ to be cold-blooded so it’s _nice_ to sit with someone who’s _warm.”_

Aziraphale sighs. “You do know _why_ I’m so warm—?”

“Oh, you’re insufferable,” Crowley snaps, turning away from him. “I’m going for a walk.”

“It’s cold,” Aziraphale reminds him testily.

“I’m sure I can manage,” Crowley insists, grabbing his coat. “Unless you assume I’m going to whither away without your _divine warmth.”_

He doesn’t hear all of Aziraphale’s reply as he exists the cottage; he’s more focused on how it really _is_ cold, and how it makes his bones ache. Still, though, he doesn’t want to go back inside right away; that would just prove Aziraphale’s point. He wraps his coat tight around himself, thinking vaguely about how they’ll probably talk about it. Their fights never tend to last long, once Crowley gets past his initial bursts of pride.

_Ah,_ he thinks bitterly. He’s going to have to report this.

* * *

25 October, 1991

Committed Lust

* * *

It would be fairly accurate to say lust is Crowley’s fourth most frequently visited sin, although after certain events that took place in the summer of 1990, it did manage to surpass gluttony. Either way, Crowley has never been particularly fond of providing any details beyond a date when he submitted these reports, if only because prior to the summer of 1990, they would consist entirely of a description of him with his hand down his pants, and subsequent to the summer of 1990, they would consist entirely of relations with a certain angel.

* * *

3 April, 2006

Committed Envy

* * *

“You know, angel, you’d think after all these years, you’d have taken the hint and learned to do this yourself,” Crowley says flatly, smoothing out a particularly rough patch of feathers.

Aziraphale shrugs. “I think you get more enjoyment out of it than I do.”

Crowley plucks a feather that might not have necessarily needed to be plucked, immediately soothing the spot when Aziraphale winces. “I think you get more enjoyment out of annoying me than you get out of stretching your wings every now and then.”

“Oh, when can I ever stretch them, really?” Aziraphale asks. “I always worry about knocking things over. Disturbing your plants.”

Crowley blushes. “Stretch mine on the beach all the time.”

Aziraphale hums. “And if someone sees you?”

“No one sees me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to see me.”

Crowley starts work on another rough patch. “You’d do well to stretch them out. They get all shabby because you keep them tucked away all the time. Doesn’t that start to ache?”

“Do yours ache?” Aziraphale asks.

“Well, yeah,” Crowley says. “I have to stretch them or it starts getting uncomfortable. Kinda like how, er…”

He trails off. He doesn’t really want to discuss the mechanics of needing to shed.

He finishes up the right wing, then lingers, running his fingers deftly over the feathers. They’re beautiful, pearly white and luminous and neat, now that Crowley has gotten his hands on them. They always look gorgeous after Crowley finishes with them, and he always hates them more when Aziraphale tucks them away than he does when he lets them out. 

Crowley bites the inside of his cheek; he really shouldn’t think that way, but Aziraphale’s wings are beautiful. Beautiful enough to be coveted, but it’s not like there’s anything Crowley can do but sit and fester about it.

“I stretch them,” Aziraphale chimes suddenly, yanking Crowley out of his train of thought.

“Oh, yeah?” Crowley asks, when his mind catches up with Aziraphale’s statement. “When?”

“Er, you know,” Aziraphale says. “Every now and then. In the bedroom.”

Crowley snorts. “Hardly counts.”

“How does that hardly count?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley moves to the left wing. “They’re _out,_ aren’t they?”

“Hardly counts if they’re crushed underneath you.”

“Well, lucky for me, I’m never in that position.”

Crowley huffs. It’s a fair point, but he doesn’t want to say such. “Well, even so, you’re not doing yourself any favors, then.”

“How so?”

“You mess them all up,” Crowley explains. “I mean, look at this—” he bends the wing gently and forces Aziraphale to look at a particularly nasty little patch. “—I’m going to have to pluck half of these.”

Aziraphale bristles. “It doesn’t hurt that ba— _ah!”_

He jumps when Crowley plucks the worst offender, but doesn’t comment any further as he immediately sets to work soothing the irritation. Crowley observes the feather between his fingers; roughed up as it is, it still looks prettier than most of his. He vanishes it bitterly.

“You ought to let me do yours after this,” Aziraphale says casually.

“Nah,” Crowley says, a little too quickly. “Mine are always groomed. No need.”

Even though his wings _are_ always neatly groomed, they never look quite as nice as Aziraphale’s when Crowley gets done with them. There’s always something keeping them from looking quite as pristine. They’re shabbier, always a little ruffled, never accepting of Crowley’s incessant attempts to smooth them out.

“Yes, I know, but I’d like to just return to favor,” Aziraphale insists. “Besides, it can be a bit hard to reach the back.”

Crowley plucks another feather, and thankfully Aziraphale takes the hint and doesn’t push the subject.

“Like grooming your wings,” Crowley mutters, soothing the irritation. “S’pretty.”

Aziraphale hums. “You are a sweet little thing.”

“Oh, tell the whole blessed world,” Crowley retorts, but he’s smiling. Vaguely he wonders if he even _has_ to report this, but he doesn’t pencil down envy often enough, as is.


	2. virtues

4 March, 1954

~~ Committed Liberality ~~

* * *

Crowley tosses a paper bag onto the counter a little more carefully than he usually handles things as he walks past. He neglects to comment, immediately heading towards the back room, which presumably has something to do with the bottle of wine in his hands. Aziraphale picks the bag up gingerly; it’s sealed at the top.

“What’s this?” he calls after him, as his disappears into the back room.

“Huh?” Crowley asks, over the clink of gathering two wine glasses into his hands. “Oh. S’a book.”

That certainly got Aziraphale’s attention. He breaks the seal and opens it up, pulling out a book wrapped protectively in paper. Unwrapping it, it appeared to be rather old. He scans the faded cover. “The Fall of the House of Usher?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, reemerging with the wine glasses and setting them down on the counter with a soft _clink._ He sets the bottle down, too, the label facing away from Aziraphale. He puts his hand over the cork and rests his chin on it. “Picked it up in Derby.”

“Did you?” Aziraphale asks absently, observing the cover.

Crowley hums affirmatively. “Some sniveling little thing in a bookshop no where near on par with yours argued with me about it for over an hour. Said he was an expert on Wilde and Poe first editions, but that was the only first edition in his store.”

Aziraphale looks up at him, wide-eyed, then back down at the book. “This is a first edition?”

“Sure,” Crowley says. “1839. Only thing in his shop worthwhile. I know he’s not really your thing, Poe, but I wasn’t about to spend money on Wilde.”

“You never did like him,” Aziraphale muses quietly. He traces the cover of the book delicately, and Crowley watches his manicured finger move over the letters.

Aziraphale takes a breath and peels his attention from the book, gesturing to the bottle Crowley is leaning a little too much of his weight on. “What’s this, then?”

“Mm,” Crowley says, picking his head up and taking the bottle, squinting at the label. “Cabernet Sauvignon. Not terribly exotic, but I saw it and it was the same year as the book, and I was like oh, funny coincidence, so, y’know.”

Aziraphale stares at him. “That’s an 1839?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, handing him the bottle. “Care to do the honors?”

Aziraphale takes the bottle in his hands gingerly. “You bought an 1839 Cabernet Sauvignon?”

He looks back to Crowley. “You don’t even _like_ red wine.”

“I like red wine,” Crowley says flippantly. “I just _prefer_ white. Or a rosé, when I’m feeling particularly feminine, but that’s almost never. Besides, angel, this is supposed to be a _gift.”_

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, a bit sternly. “This is an _1839 Cabernet Sauvignon_ and a _first edition Poe novel._ How much money did—”

Crowley waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s my business,” he says quickly. “It’s a _gift._ Say thank you and open that bottle, will you?”

Aziraphale hesitates. “Thank you,” he says. “Hand me the corkscrew, would you?”

* * *

27 July, 2001

~~ Committed Kindness ~~

* * *

Crowley feels a tug on his coat and thinks nothing of it at first. He continues the conversation with the young woman at the register, who is talking adamantly about the potted viper's bowstring hemp placed on the counter between them.

“Now, they’re toxic to cats and dogs, so I wouldn’t recommend keeping it anywhere they frequent,” she said quickly, smiling at him with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Oh, I don’t keep pets,” Crowley says. “What was this one’s nickname again?”

“Most people call it a snake-plant,” she said cheerfully, and Crowley grinned wide.

Something tugs at his coat again just as he starts to ask, “How often did you say to water it?”

He looks down to see what the tugging is as the woman answers him, but he doesn’t hear her because all his attention is immediately focused on the small child standing at his feet. She can’t be more than five, and she’s not necessarily crying, but she does look very stressed.

The young woman notices him staring, and leans over the counter to have a look at what. “Oh,” she says, eyeing the child. “Is she yours?”

“No,” Crowley says quickly, looking back at her. “Er—one second.”

He looks back down at the girl, who has now acquired a death grip on the hem of his coat. “Can I help you?”

The words come out a little more bitter than was probably appropriate. Nevertheless, she takes a breath and says, “Can you help me find my mum?”

Crowley looks at the cashier a bit desperately, and she flashes him a smile before looking down at the girl. “Are you lost, sweetie?”

The girl edges behind Crowley a little bit, still clutching the hem of his coat, and he sighs. “I’ll, er…” he makes a vague gesture towards her, “help her find her mum, then.”

“You sure?” the woman asks, sounding vaguely disappointed.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, albeit a bit reluctantly. He sweeps the plant off the counter (don’t worry, he paid for it) and cradles it in one arm, looking down at the girl. “Okay, where did—”

Without saying anything, she lets go of the hem of his jacket and grabs his hand, holding onto his fingers tightly, and for a moment Crowley forgets to breathe. She looks up at him, eyes wide, but trusting, and Crowley feels himself wilt a little bit.

“Er,” he says, awkwardly stepping forward and leading her along. “Right. What does your mum look like?”

“She’s pretty,” the girl says as they leave the garden section and enter the main part of the store. “Your hands are cold.”

Crowley swallows nervously. “What does she look like?” he asks again.

“She’s pretty,” the girl repeats. “And tall. She looks like me.”

“Alright,” Crowley says; that seems enough to go off of for now, looks wise. “Where did you last see her?”

“I was looking at glass,” the girls says, as though that explains everything. “It was blue and green.”

Crowley nods. “Why don’t you take me to the… glass, and we’ll go from there?”

“Mhm,” she says, and leads him down an aisle, and then down another when she realizes she led him down the wrong one.

“My mum is a teacher,” she explains. “She teaches maths.”

“Very cool,” Crowley says, spotting the glassware display he assumes she must have been talking about. “Is this—”

“Did you know two times two is four? Same as two plus two is four.”

“I did not know that, thank you. So, when—”

“My mum teachers year nine maths.”

“Good for her. Now—”

“What’s your job?”

Crowley hesitates. “Er… I’m… a spy.”

Technically not a lie, but he feels horrible as soon as he says it.

Her face lights up. “Like James Bond?”

Crowley beams, despite himself. “Yeah, like James Bond.”

“Ashleigh!” 

A frazzled looking mother comes walking down the aisle towards them, and the girl—Ashleigh, presumably—let’s go of Crowley’s hand and darts towards her. Immediately, he shoves it in his pocket, standing awkwardly as the mother goes to scoop her daughter up in her arms.

“Don’t you go running off like that, you scared me half to death!” the mother scolds, before she looks warily at Crowley. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Crowley says. “She, er, went looking for you straight away. Enlisted my help.”

“He’s a spy,” Ashleigh tells her mother in a very loud whisper, and the mother huffs.

“Devil child, you are,” she says to her daughter playfully, and Crowley can’t help but grin at that. She looks back to him. “So sorry about that.”

“S’not a problem,” Crowley assures her. “Happy to help.”

* * *

November 10, 2019

~~ Committed Humility ~~

* * *

“No, no, no,” Crowley slurs; he’s perched haphazardly in Aziraphale’s lap, straddling him, holding his glass of wine over the angel’s shoulder. “You’re not _lissstening_ , angel.”

“I am listening,” Aziraphale insists, equally as drunk.

“No, _sssee,”_ Crowley takes a sip of his wine. “Bell—Bee—Beez—Beelzebub is the _Princcce—”_

“Doesn’t _look_ like a Prince.”

_“Hey, humansss_ made gender up. _Worssst_ thing they ever made, in my humble—”

“You had a point.”

“Ah, _yesss,_ my point _isss,_ Bellzee—Beezel— _Beelzebub,_ is the _Princcce_ , and _Hassstur_ and Ligur are _Dukesss—”_

“No, now see, I could have _sworn—”_

“They’re not different _ranksss_ , angel, you’re _jussst_ forgetful.”

“They must have been at some point, I swear to you Hastur was of higher ranking.”

“Ah, and you’ve met them, _ssso_ you would know.”

“I’m just _saying,_ Crowley—”

“And I’m _jussst sssaying_ , I’ve known them _sssince_ we Fell, they’re both _Dukesss.”_

Aziraphale takes a sip of his own wine, seems to ponder this, then says, “You’re hissing.”

“How _obssservant_ of you,” Crowley says, then downs the rest of his glass in one go.

Aziraphale follows suit. “Remind me the ranks one more time, then I think I—I ought to take you to bed.”

“Ooh, I like the _sssound_ of that,” Crowley hisses, and he makes an attempt to roll his hips, but he’s far too drunk and horribly uncoordinated, and he nearly falls off the couch.

Aziraphale catches him messily, hauling him back into his lap. “Not like that, you _serpent.”_

“Oh, I can _sssober_ up—”

“Ranks, dear?”

“Mm,” Crowley hums, then raises a hand up and points at something invisible above his head. _“Adversssary,”_ he lowers his hand just a little and points to something lower, “Bez—Bell— _you know, Princcce,”_ he lowers his hand again, _“Hassstur_ and Ligur, and a couple _othersss, Dukesss,”_ he points to himself. “and me.”

“And you are…?”

_“Absssolutely_ nothing,” Crowley slurs. “A _ssspec. Worthlesss. Insssignifigant,”_ he thinks of something, then laughs and says, “I am _jussst…_ a little creature… _that’sss_ it… I cannot change _thisss…”_

“Oh, surely you’re higher up in the ranks than that,” Aziraphale says slowly, taking care to pronounce his words correctly, struggling not to slip into an older version of English. “I’m a Principality and I—I don’t do much of anything—”

“You’re a glutton,” Crowley mutters.

“—but _surely_ you’re in the inner circle. With—with _Eve_ and all that.”

“Offered,” Crowley says. “Declined.”

“What?”

“When I tempted Eve,” Crowley said, as though he were speaking to a small child, “I _wasss_ offered a nobility title, and I _sssaid_ no.”

Aziraphale squints. “Why?”

Crowley groans and drops his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Take me to bed.”

* * *

20 June, 1975

~~ Committed Chastity ~~

* * *

Crowley has kissed people before, of course.

He’s been on Earth a long time. Customs change culture to culture, century to century. Sometimes it’s appropriate to greet someone with a kiss on the cheek, or the hand, or even the lips, and sometimes it’s appropriate to greet someone with the shake of a hand, or with nothing at all. Crowley’s done all of it, and will do it all again, but he’s never exactly done _this._

_This,_ being, curling up in the passenger seat of the Bentley, in the lap of _someone_ —someone he really ought to know the name of, Crowley thinks, now that he has his tongue in his mouth. He’s definitely _someone._ Someone important, maybe; someone famous, almost definitely. Someone he met at a party, someone he shared a cigarette with, someone he actually let talk him into going for a ride in the Bentley.

“Will you let me drive?”

“Absolutely not,” Crowley had said, and had been a little startled to find he wasn’t really hard-set in that position. It would’ve only taken a little prodding to get him to surrender the wheel. Luckily, the man didn’t push.

Crowley had wanted to smoke another cigarette to calm his nerves, but had actually found himself worrying how that might look to a human. Crowley could smoke as many as he wanted when he was alone in his flat, (although he did tend to try to keep it contained to the balcony now that it had been suggested the fumes might not be good for houseplants) (not that Crowley _cared)_ or around Aziraphale, because the two of them knew neither of them was at much of a risk to addiction or any of the number of terrible things smoking was now being connected to. Chain-smoking was becoming an unattractive quality to humans, though, and Crowley was anything but unattractive.

So instead he drove with one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the gear shift, like someone who was reasonably responsible, and drove twenty miles over the speed limit, like someone who very much wasn’t. 

“You’re going to get us pulled over.”

“Oh, no I’m not.”

“Bet you can’t even see the signs with those shades on.”

“I can see just fine,” Crowley had insisted, but even as he said the words, the man had reached over and pulled Crowley’s sunglasses off his face.

“Oh,” he’d said, obviously surprised, almost dropping the glasses. Crowley had bit the inside of his cheek; humans didn’t usually take kindly to his eyes, on the rare occasion he did reveal them, which is why he only ever did so to startle people.

Crowley had felt oddly self conscious, then. He didn’t look at the man. He kept his eyes on the road, like a responsible driver. 

The man set his glasses on the dashboard and slid closer. He threw out a compliment about Crowley’s eyes that he hardly believed, and yet it had still managed to make something in his stomach flit around wildly. He’d ignored it.

“You know who you remind me of? Rudolph Valentino.”

“Oh, yeah?” Crowley asked. He would’ve preferred a George Lazenby comparison, but he was flattered, nonetheless. “Well, you remind me of…”

He tried to think of a handsome cultural icon, and somehow drew a blank, which was a feat, considering he’d met so many. “…someone handsome.”

The man had laughed, and somehow Crowley had felt less embarrassed and more endeared. 

“Where are you taking me?”

“Oh, anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere at all. Say the word, your wish is my command.”

Crowley had flirted before, yes, but never quite to this extent. Never when he thought he was in danger of actually wanting to lean in and steal a kiss. 

At some point he had become aware of a hand on his thigh, and then he had become aware of himself taking that hand in his and lifting it up, placing a rather suggestive kiss to the wrist, but what had transpired between then and now, where Crowley found himself seated in his lap, was a bit hazy. 

Crowley broke the kiss, panting even though he didn’t need to, although his lungs were fairly convinced that air was necessary to survival right that second, so he indulged it. He won’t admit to the embarrassing variety of noises he made as the man began pressing kisses to his neck; he’d certainly never been kissed _there_ before.

The longer they sat there, kissing, touching, warm hands holding Crowley’s waist, which was an absolutely delicious feeling, the more Crowley thought about _other_ things he’d never done (at least, not with another person). His stomach flipped, but this time not in a fun way. 

He places his hands on the man’s shoulder, “Ah, er—maybe I should… maybe we should be going…”

The man hums, his thumbs rubbing little circles above Crowley’s hips, and he doesn’t necessarily want him to _stop,_ but…

“You’re a good kisser.”

Crowley blushes even harder than he already was. “Er—thank you. But, we should…er…”

“If you want. You could take me back to yours.”

Crowley winces a little bit, because that’s exactly the kind of message his body in conveying, but his nerves are all on fire from the kiss, and something is telling him he’s not going to find much satisfaction going any further, at least not in the long run, and certainly not here.

“No,” he says, “Ah, I think—for tonight—”

“Sure,” the man says, understanding, and he lets go of Crowley’s waist. 

It was a gesture devoid of judgement, but Crowley still felt the need to explain himself anyways as he clambered out of his lap. “See, it’s just I’ve—I’ve never really _done this_ before, and I don’t think—”

“Really?”

“Er, yeah.”

_“Never?”_

“Never.”

“…You’re a _really_ good kisser.”

Crowley settles back behind the wheel, placing both his hands on it to calm himself. “Well, I worry that’s where my skill set ends.”

He starts the car. “Where to, then?”

The man is grinning at him. “Anywhere you want, loverboy.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, blushing, and then he laughs a little bit, more than a little smitten.

* * *

4 May, 2011

~~ Committed Patience ~~

* * *

Crowley taps his fingers irritably against the desk, as he’s been doing for the past three hours. Aziraphale looks up from his book, again, and says, “My dear, a watched plant never grows.”

“You mean a watched pot never boils,” Crowley corrects, without looking away from the succulent sitting on the window sill. “But it will. Eventually.”

He narrows his eyes at the succulent. “And so will you.”

“Boil?” Aziraphale asks, amused.

“If that’s what it comes to,” Crowley growls.

“Oh, how menacing,” Aziraphale says dryly. “You’ve been sitting there for hours, Crowley. You know you have a whole _garden_ you could go attend to.”

“Garden’s behaving. This one isn’t.”

“So take it around to all it’s friends and make an example of it and then drive it to the nursery—”

Crowley glares at him.

“—or go get rid of it however you like to make them _think_ you do—for goodness sake, Crowley, it’s a _plant._ Water it and leave it alone.”

Crowley looks back at the succulent, which should be cowering in fear. “No.”

Aziraphale sighs. “What did it even do wrong?”

“He’s three inches shorter than the one in the kitchen,” Crowley says bitterly. “I bought them at the same time, and this bastard gets an hour or so more of sunlight every day, and he’s still _daring_ to under perform.”

Aziraphale gives up, sinking back into his chair and trying to find where he left off in his book. “So get rid of it.”

“No,” Crowley insists. “He should feel ashamed.”

“You’re shaming it?”

“Yes.”

“Crowley, that’s a plant. It’s leaves.”

“And he should feel ashamed of them.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “You’re going to be there all day.”

“I’ll wait,” Crowley says quietly, resting his head on his chin. “I’ll wait.”

* * *

9 April, 2007

~~ Committed Diligence ~~

* * *

“Crowley?”

The demon makes a vague noise in response, stretching and rolling over in bed. He buries his face halfway in his pillow, cracking open his eye to look lazily at Aziraphale, who’s leaning against the doorframe, watching him affectionately. 

There’s a long lapse of silence, and finally Crowley grins sleepily. “What did you need, sweetheart?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, blushing lightly at the pet name and smiling. “Well, there’s a little event going on over in Camber, antiquing and whatnot, and I kept forgetting to bring it up, but this is the last weekend, so I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind." 

Crowley shuts his eyes and makes a thoughtful noise, the grin still on his face. Aziraphale expects him to whine, say something about wanting to enjoy a lie in, _it’s Saturday, angel, let me sleep._ Instead, though, he sits up and stretches, groaning quietly, and he’s a pretty sight, still naked from last night, all lithe and pliant. Aziraphale has half a mind to push him back into bed and have his way with him.

He yawns, and it would be an alarming sight, had Aziraphale not known him for six thousand years, but seeing his jaw come close to unhinged is hardly the worst state he’s ever seen Crowley in.

“All right,” Crowley says warmly. “Let’s go.”

“What, now?” Aziraphale asks, surprised.

“Sure, why not?” he glances at the clock. “It’s nine-thirty. Let’s go to Camber.”

“I would’ve thought you’d like to sleep in a little longer,” Aziraphale says. “I thought we could go tomorrow.”

“Oh, no, let’s go today,” Crowley insists, sounding much more awake now. He slips out of bed, neglecting to dress himself the easy way, instead opting to do it manually, because who is he, if not a tease?

Aziraphale doesn’t take his eyes off him, admiring. “Are you sure?”

“Sure, angel, let’s make a day of it,” Crowley says, buttoning his shirt. “What is Camber, an hour East?”

“An hour and fifteen minutes,” Aziraphale offers, because he’d just looked at the directions on Google Maps. He’d been prepared to have to persuade the demon.

“Bet I can make it an hour,” Crowley says. 

“Are you really sure you want to go now?” Aziraphale asks.

“Angel, there’s no way I’m letting you go antiquing without me,” Crowley says. “Why, have you changed your mind?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale says. “I appreciate it very much. It just seems… out of character.”

Crowley shrugs. “Who’s to say what is and isn’t?”

* * *

November 25, 1991

~~ Committed Abstinence ~~

* * *

“You look horribly stressed,” Aziraphale comments. “Are you alright?”

Crowley is laid out on the couch in the back room of the shop, his head propped up on the arm. He’s staring, glassy eyed, at the ceiling, his hands folded over his stomach. He doesn’t bother to actually answer Aziraphale, just makes a noncommittal noise. 

Aziraphale isn’t satisfied with that answer, sitting down in the chair adjacent to him. “Is something going on Downstairs?”

“No,” Crowley says, with effort. He thinks for a moment, then shudders. _I hope not._

Aziraphale watches him for a long moment, then declares. “You look like you could do with a cigarette.”

Crowley closes his eyes; he _could_ do with a cigarette. He could do with several. He opens his eyes and glances at Aziraphale, who’s offering him one he probably hadn’t been holding ten seconds ago. Crowley stares at it, then looks back up at the ceiling. “No.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks, withdrawing his hand. “Are you sure?”

“Quite,” Crowley says quietly.

“You look dreadful, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Fine.”

It’s said in a very uncertain tone of voice, which isn’t convincing in the slightest. Aziraphale watches him for a long moment, but Crowley doesn’t stir, just stares unblinking at the ceiling, the inkling of a frown on his face. His hands don’t even twitch. 

“Do you want something to drink?” Aziraphale offers.

Crowley appears to consider, then he hums and says, “No.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks. “I have a Cortese I think you’d enjoy. Or a Rosé if you’re in the mood.”

“No, thank you,” Crowley says again. “I’m not in the mood.”*

*He was, in fact, very much in the mood, either to chain-smoke or to get roaringly drunk on a Rosé, or both. 

“Won’t you tell me what’s wrong, at least, dear boy?” Aziraphale asks. “I’d like to help.”

Crowley smiles sadly. “Nothing to help with.”

Aziraphale gives him a sympathetic look. “How do you mean?”

Crowley swallows, then squirms in the way he does when he’s about to say something he worries might embarrass him. “I’m mourning, angel.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Oh.”

The statement settles over Aziraphale, and then he’s seized with empathy over the glassiness of Crowley’s eyes, the sad stillness of him. “Are you sure you don’t want a cigarette?”

Crowley huffs, the sad smile still settled on his lips. “I’d love one, truthfully,” he says. “But I’d… prefer to abstain, if it’s not too much trouble.”

He closes his eyes as he mutters the word; any other night, Aziraphale absolutely would have teased him, especially considering Crowley’s insistence that he _never_ abstains from anything. He doesn’t, though. He nods and sits quietly, and ponders Crowley’s many virtues.


End file.
